“They are wrong,” I say.
He grunts. “You must be visible. The Hunt is a week away. The Americans will do their dance, but you must show the boy our power. This union is very important to solidify our reach into new territory.”
I force my voice steady. “Papa, I am doing everything you told me. Don’t forget you wanted me to run in the Hunt. The Feral Boys—”
He cuts me off, a sound like glass shattering in the background. “The Feral Boys are distractions. Animals on leashes. You are a Bonaccorso. You are born for this. Do not forget that.”
The urge to argue is so strong I have to dig my nails into the underside of the desk. “Of course, Papa.”
“Your sister failed me. Her intended ran off with some fucking lowlife.” His anger seeps through the phone. “You will not be weak. You will remind them why they fear us. You will do what we set out to do and we will expand, pushing the Castillo’s out once and for all.”
The silence on the line stretches. I can hear his breathing, heavy and slow.
“Lia,” he says, softer now. “Do not make me regret sending you there.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I won’t.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
The phone is a dead weight in my hand. I want to throw it through the window, watch it arc over the quad and shatter on the concrete below. Instead, I set it down, slow and deliberate, and trace the edge of the screen with my thumb. My nail leaves a thin, white scratch along the screen protector.
I sit for a long time, staring at nothing. My mind is a web, every thread tight with the weight of expectation. I feel the pressure in my bones, the ache behind my eyes.
When I finally move, it’s like breaking the surface of a frozen lake.
I stand, smooth my skirt, and pull a fresh shirt from the closet. Silk, white, expensive. I button it to the throat, then slide on my blazer, every movement a practiced piece of theater. The shoes are next—leather, Italian, stiletto heels that click like gunfire on the marble tile.
I check my reflection in the mirror. My face is calm, the surface smooth. No one would see the earthquake underneath. I dab concealer along my jaw, careful to erase the sleep sitting heavy on my skin. Red lipstick, dark eyeshadow.
My armor is complete.
I gather my bag, phone, jacket and keys, then step out into the corridor. The door swings shut behind me with a gentle hiss. The hall is empty except for the cleaning crew, their eyes down, faces neutral. I walk past them, head high, spine straight, each step measured.
Every person I pass steps aside, some out of deference, some out of fear.
At the end of the hall, I pause. Leone and Ciro are standing there, greeting me with a nod. A sigh escapes me as I look beyond them. The double doors to the quad are glass, heavy and smudged with the fingerprints of a hundred students. Beyond them, the world is cold and bright. I steel myself, then push through, feeling the air bite at my skin.
I keep moving, every stride calculated. The other students watch from their perches on the stone benches, their faces wary. I ignore them all. I am a fucking Bonaccorso. I own this place, if only for a moment.
By the time I reach the far end of the quad, my breathing is steady. My pulse is not.
There’s an old stone archway that leads to the north path. I duck under it, lean against the cold granite, and finally let myself shiver. My fingers dig into the inside of my wrist, pressing down until the bones ache.
I replay the call in my mind, every word, every silence. The message is clear: I have no room for error. Not here, not anywhere. I have to win, or I will be the family disappointment.
I want to scream. Instead, I close my eyes and count to ten, the way Ciro taught me when I was small.
When I open them, I see movement at the far end of the path.
Bam.
He’s leaning against the statue of some old fuck, hands in his pockets, face turned up to the sun like he’s never seen it before, breath fogging in front of his face. His leather jacket is half-unzipped, black shirt stretched tight across his chest. He’s watching me, always.
I wonder if he saw me break.
Probably. He always does.
I straighten my collar, wipe the sweat from my palm, and head toward him, heels cracking the silence like gunfire.
